Sookie, Sookie [6] Strip Tease
Warning: some might find this somewhat offensive. If you are seriously offended when reading about various sexual activities and perhaps, perversions, ya might want to hit back on the browser. If you are not old enough to read or buy porn, stop here.
It had been exactly twenty-two days since Edward's celebratory soiree. For the most part, he had managed to forget the stomach-sinking horror of his non-technical and, as such, mortifying, address. And thankfully, he had effectively suppressed the remembrance of the constant fire engine red blush he wore that evening.
Not surprisingly really, the only memory from that almost-wretched affair he cared to retain was the rather dangerous and entirely wank-worthy imaginings of Bella stroking his cock underneath the tablecloth and obviously, their post-handjob closet fuck. He'd been scared senseless that he might have been caught with both his proverbial and his literal pants down. But in truth, it had been a more than arousing experience, one he'd actually like to attempt again. Yes, it had been an extraordinary tryst, and that, in and of itself, made the remainder of the miserable evening a worthwhile sufferance.
Bella had looked divine that night, infinitely fuckable. And classy, he added. She was precisely what he'd always wanted and dreamed of: intelligent, well-spoken, beautiful, entertaining, and a goddamned sexual deviant's goddess. She was perfect, despite her continual arguments to the contrary. It was her singular failing, he reckoned. She did not see herself clearly at all. He'd studied enough women to recognize perfection when he saw it. And she was it.
And fuck, if his cock didn't jump just at the thought of her screaming his name in that closet. Although, if he were being honest, his cock twitched when he thought about her doing pretty much anything. He couldn't wait until she returned from her business trip. While it was a short trip, a mere three days, he already missed her. Pussy whipped is what I am, he smiled. At that thought, a dozen scenarios splintered, all involving said pussy and whips.
The twang of early 1960's Elvis Presley assaulted his ears, wrenching him from his more than pleasant abstraction. It was an entirely inappropriate song, considering his locale, and it made him laugh too-loudly, unfortunately drawing the eyes of every other patron in the store.
You look like an angel
Walk like an angel
Talk like an angel
But I got wise
You're the devil in disguise
She is the devil, he giggled. Bella Swan was an evil succubus that had snuck into his room at night and had stolen his soul, not to mention his cock. That was wholly owned by her. Her unearthly charms and sexual wiles had rendered him an uncaring fool, willing to barter his entire being to follow her around to eternity and back. It was an altogether unsettling realization, but he'd long since resigned himself to unthinkingly accepting his outrageous fortune. Never mind that it flew in the face of every instinct and assumption he'd ever made over the past thirty-three years regarding his long-term romantic potential.
Hence, his current location.
Edward hated shopping. He avoided the activity like the plague, and since that horrible Christmas shopping misadventure with the ridiculous, drunken, and somewhat verbally abusive Santas, he'd been quite successful in avoiding malls and other such hellacious pits. There were too many people in such places, and he always ended up being served by either blond and busty chatterers who could not do basic mathematics or by elderly blue-hairs who felt the need to touch his head to try to tame his mess of bronze hair. Either option was an uncomfortable proposition that he preferred to avoid.
Typically, all of Edward's shopping was dealt with online and by phone to his tailor. Years ago, he'd undergone the time-consuming process of painstaking and embarrassing measurement. And in truth, for a few weeks afterward, he'd felt somewhat traumatized by the close and intimate proximity of the tiny, old man during his fitting. But since, Edward had but to pick the phone up and one week later, a new, exquisitely crafted suit of his customarily conservative and single-breasted fashion would be on his doorstep. The same went for his oxfords and ties. The remainder: shoes, casual attire, electronics, and even groceries, were handled online. On occasion, he felt a touch pretentious at having toothpaste delivered to his home. But if it kept him out of scary, too-bright places riddled with scary, too-touchy people, it was worth the price and the odd looks.
But this could not be handled online. Of course, he could purchase such things from online retailers, but he'd read that the item in question needed to 'speak' to him. Whatever the fuck that meant. Inanimate objects could do no such thing. But he would give it a fair chance, and too, he wanted to physically touch his purchase before handing over such a sizable dollar figure.
Edward had researched the matter as thoroughly as any male had ever. He knew with precise definition the meaning of each of the primary points of value. And just as he'd done with his vehicle, he had created a massive spreadsheet matrix, with customized weighting factors, with which he statistically determined the optimal outcome. Now, he had but to locate said outcome and purchase. He did not think that portion of the task would be overly taxing.
One thing was for certain. Edward did not understand the waffling and anxiety over his purchase that some men seemed to feel. Once the decision was made, it was just an exchange of funds. Though, he did recognize that some might not possess the necessary computing skills to create a matrix such as his. Regardless, it could be done all on paper, so again, he really could not relate. Edward concluded that their buyer's apprehension was most likely due to lack of planning and research. They simply had not done their homework. Edward always did his homework, especially so with items at this level of import.
"May I help you?" a buxom brunette drawled as she twiddled a stiffly hair-sprayed tendril. Drawn by her movement, Edward noticed her nail lacquer was a vibrant coral, matching her equally brightly painted lips and low-cut blouse. Her skin almost matched, apparently by way of some poorly concocted sunless tanning product.
Why a woman would want to appear orange was beyond him. In fact, this woman, were she to have green hair, would look remarkably like the tiny men in that chocolate movie Bella had forced him to watch.
Years prior, he'd looked into such skin-altering products after he'd been told he was too pale. He'd read the ingredients and was sorely unimpressed by the formulations. His first response had been to assess how he likely could create a far superior product were he of the mind. He opted to remain pasty. Chalky suited him just fine.
Considering the woman at hand, he wondered how long it took her to 'put on her face' each morning. Crinkling his nose, he compared her orangish plastic-like appearance to Bella's. They were not even on the same playing field. For his apropos sports analogy, he paused and silently applauded himself for his manliness.
"Sir, are you lookin' for anythin' in particular? Perhaps a necklace? Or earrings? Are you shopping for your mother? Or girlfriend?" she purred.
Her accent was clearly put on, Edward decided. But the 'V' in her shirt probably distracted most males from her poorly executed Georgia peach imitation. Apparently, she had a thing for all things orange. But the woman was obviously a member of the former category of sales staff: the ones who required a calculator to add two and two. She, at least, seemed to be trying to be helpful. Either way, he was not looking forward to their interaction. It would most assuredly be painful.
"Erm, yes? I'm looking for something quite particular," he finally replied, dry washing his hands in nervous energy.
She nodded politely, urging him on with a coy smile. Edward noted that while her head bobbed, her bouffant barely shifted. And then strangely, the woman batted her thickly caked eyelashes at him.
What the fuck? He was moderately mesmerized by the wig-like helmet of her hair. Childishly, he considered if it would act as a spring were he to throw something at it.
How much hair spray does that require? he mused. Surely, this woman has some measure of culpability for the widening hole in the ozone layer.
Quickly, he pulled out a somewhat crumpled shrunken version of his spreadsheet, littered with red-inked notes, and he proudly laid it across the glass countertop. The woman's brows creased, and her lips twitched in amusement. Thankfully, she said nothing. Do other men not come prepared? he wanted to ask.
Edward took a deep lungful of air to steel his nerves, and then he proceeded to rattle off his list as though he were calling out preparation steps to his technician. He hoped she was paying attention. He wasn't sure he had the wherewithal to repeat himself without hyperventilating.
"Um, er, yes. I require an approximate one-point-seven-five-carat, round, minimum E color, VVS1 preferably, minimum 'very good' cut, though I'd like 'ideal' if you have it. And then, I would like to peruse your three stone settings, in platinum, of course. We'll discuss the side stones once I've settled on the primary."
He exhaled a shaky breath, suddenly realizing that this was a moment. All of his future dreams and wants began at this juncture. Considering the flipping contents of his stomach, he began to reassess the allure of purchasing the ring online. His fingers anxiously wound themselves through his tangled hair, tugging and rearranging it into what Bella always termed his 'just fucked hair'. 'Almost vomiting hair' was more like it, he corrected with a grimace.
A low whistle caught his attention, forcing his green-eyed gaze upward. The woman's flat brown eyes boggled and briefly, Edward wondered if she had choked on her chewing gum - also a carroty orange, he noted. From years past, he recalled the basic CPR procedures and blanched at the thought of mouth to mouth. His fingers drummed a tight rhythm against the glass as he waited for her recovery.
"You do realize you are looking at a considerable sum, right?" she replied incredulously, blinking rapidly.
"Of course, I do," he responded, trying to hide his annoyance and indignation. Really! Does she think I would be so ill-prepared for such a purchase? At least she is breathing, however. She probably tastes terrible, like some synthetically created... well, orange.
"By my approximation, depending on the clarity and cut you can offer me, the primary stone should run somewhere around thirty thousand dollars, plus or minus five," he continued with an indifferent shrug.
It was a sizable sum, especially adding the secondary stones and setting, more than many new vehicles, he acknowledged. Yet, he fervently wished that Bella would be a slightly more permanent fixture in his life than an automobile. Plus, there was some odd nonsensical custom relating salary to jewelry. He hadn't really paid any attention to the details other than to note that the more one made, the more the ring was expected to cost. It was really irrelevant. But more importantly, however, he wanted anyone and everyone to readily see her status of ineligibility from across fucking parking lots. That was worth his entire bank account if need be.
The saleswoman flashed him a wide, toothy grin, obviously considering and already banking her commission. "Right this way, sir... Mr...? Would you like a glass of wine?"
Wine? What? Is she propositioning me? Does she think I will pay more if I'm drunk? he wondered. Well, possibly. Perhaps. No, probably, he admitted. Regardless, hopefully the alcohol would calm his nerves.
"Agh, um, Cullen. Erm, Edward Cullen. And, um, yes? Maybe one glass," he answered cordially, fighting to still his trembling hands.
~O.o~
Three days later, at ten minutes after six, Edward paced the length of his apartment, anxiously awaiting her arrival. Inwardly, he was still soaring from his newest acquisition, a rather substantial, very shiny and very brilliant engagement ring, one that he hoped to soon present to Bella. Although, each time he considered that particular conversation, his entire midsection cartwheeled, and he found that he couldn't even form coherent sentences. Just thinking of her potential rejection was appallingly painful. He wasn't sure he would be able to survive should she tell him to fuck off.
Goddamnit! he squeaked, as he palmed his forehead, again knocking his frames askew. What the fuck am I doing? Can I not leave well enough alone? I'll die. I know it. She will say no and I will fucking die, right there in front of her. I'm a fucking idiot. Agh!
His emotions were on high alert, rapidly rotating between elation, excitation, dread, and outright terror. Nothing in his life had ever provoked this level of intense apprehension. His dissertation had been... easy by comparison. Well, his dissertation wasn't really a good point of reference; that had been easy as it had been a purely scientific and thus, logical discussion. His committee had barely even bothered questioning his work, as it had been clearly superior in both thoroughness and correctness.
Perhaps the only comparison he had was his undergraduate valedictorian's speech at Duke. He'd almost been hospitalized after that horrid day. But even that was nothing compared to even thinking about his proposal and her probable subsequent refusal.
He had had two days to mull over the exact words he'd say, and he had yet to finish any variety of such an important speech. He still had time, however, he argued. The small velvet box would not grow legs; he could take the necessary time to do everything correctly. And time would provide him the opportunity to surreptitiously assess her willingness before laying his entire being at her feet. No fucking up, Edward, he chanted as though it were his new mantra.
It certainly didn't help his emotional stability that since she'd departed for her trip, Edward had been continually barraged with images of their last coupling, a rather enjoyable gymnastics-laden exercise in flexibility and endurance. She was so flexible! His hips were still slightly sore from the exertion and angling. Yet, just thinking of her spread legs made him damned near drool. He recognized that foregoing masturbatory release in her absence had been a very poor decision, as it complicated his already dizzying spin of contradictory emotions.
But for the moment, he purposefully pushed aside all of those disconcerting thoughts and allowed himself to be entirely absorbed with the fact that her flight was due within the hour. He selfishly hoped that she'd eaten at the airport and would not want to eat dinner. His overactive libido wished that instead, she would want to fuck immediately. Or, he rationalized, I could always feed her while we fuck. That worked quite well before. Not anything messy, of course, he considered, picturing the scene. Grapes would work. Or strawberries. Or chocolate syrup. No, messy. But...still.
To his relief, at three minutes after seven, he heard the telltale knock at his door, and he nearly clawed the handle off of it. With neither restraint nor any sign of decorum, he jerked the offending door out of the way.
His eyes instantly found her slender form. She was leaning lightly against the doorframe, her expression one of pure heat. More telling, he swiftly realized just how scantily clad she was. In fact, she was bedecked in nothing but rather conspicuous looking underthings and an open calf length coat. And heels, fucking sky high, bend me over and fuck me hard heels. They were like a beacon call to his cock.
"Dr. Cullen," she greeted with a smirk. Her eyes slid down to his now bulging zipper seam. He was grateful that he hadn't bothered to change out of his work attire, other than to loosen his tie. Jeans were so... confining.
"I see you are happy to see me?" she hummed.
His voice came out in a strangled choke. "Erm, uh, yes, Dr. Swan. Most assuredly. Um, you didn't wear that on the plane, did you?"
Saying nothing else, she swayed through the door, swishing her hips side to side. He was purely enthralled and mesmerized. There was virtually nothing covering her. Her panties were beyond translucent, a shimmering nude with black lace trim that left nothing whatsoever to his imagination. And this magical garment was affixed with its own set of garter straps, which were in kind attached to their respective black stockings. But what truly held his attention was her bra, or perhaps lack there of. In the place of a traditional garment, she wore these remarkable... things that covered her nipples. And they had fucking tassels.
Spellbound, his lips parted as his forefinger involuntarily darted out and repeatedly flicked one of said tassels.
Her brow quirked, "Would it bother you if I said yes?"
What? What is she talking about? he wondered. What did I miss?
"Wha-?" he mouthed.
She laughed a full, throaty laugh. His eyes widened as he watched the tassels slink back and forth with her chest's motion.
"The plane, Edward? You asked if I wore this on the plane? Would it bother you if I said yes?" she chuckled, as her hand brushed against his fully erect and nearly strangling cock.
"Um, er, right. Yes? No? Fuck, Bella. I can't think right now, okay?" he stuttered, breathless and anticipating.
Innocently, she purred, "So, you like?"
He gulped and nodded. He wasn't quite sure what to do at this point in time. He really wanted to throw her against the wall and fuck her into oblivion. But then, he also had the insane desire to just look at her and torture himself. Perhaps I could do both: throw her against the wall and look at her while I fuck her. Yes, good plan, he decided. Wait, how would that even work? She's making me stupid.
"I thought you might appreciate a show?"
"A show..." he repeated dumbly, still staring at her bouncing tits.
Without warning, she palmed his chest and pushed him back into the living room.
"Sit, Dr. Cullen. And drop your pants."
What? Okay! She doesn't want to eat after all!
Making quick work of her demand, his trousers were shed, and he happily settled on the sofa, awaiting her next instruction. Every step she took made him want to grab her and pull her down on top of him. But clearly, she had a plan, and he was all for any plan that involved these tassels and virtually non-existent underthings.
While he had been ridding himself of his pesky lower attire, she had been finagling with his overly complicated stereo system, plugging in her own device. His eyebrows climbed as he considered what she could possibly be intending.
As she turned around, dropping her coat, the strains of an unfamiliar yet familiar song popped from his speakers. Waits? Is that it? he questioned. After a second more, he understood with perfect clarity. Oh, yes... Hrm, very appropriate. Pasties? Check. G-string? Check. Strip! Fuck yes, indeed!
His eyes were, by this time, nearly popping, and he could not prevent the broad grin that spread across his face. This is new!
She had certainly entertained him before and had seduced and taunted him to the point of damn near agony. But this? Okay!
Bella caught his smile and winked coyly. His breath hitched as he watched her sashay back and forth, rocking precisely to the timing of the music.
"You may touch yourself, Dr. Cullen," she said, as she clicked and swayed toward him, just stopping in front of his position on the sofa.
An unconscious shuddering whimper escaped his chest as her hips jutted out, exactly at his eye level. His fingers throbbed and trembled as he tried to control the desire to grab said curvaceous hips. He wanted to lick her hipbones. And maybe bite them.
She was extraordinary, he realized. While he knew her to be coordinated - how else could she walk in those death traps? - he hadn't realized just how much so. She moved in perfect, sensuous, swanky rhythm, swinging her hips and teasingly running her hands all over her body. He was insanely jealous of her hands.
Those goddamned tassels swished back and forth, drawing with them his gaze. He didn't know what to look at: her tits or her hips or her ass or her groping hands. It was a fucking burlesque show for one! For me! he wanted to scream and clap.
A light sheen of sweat coated his forehead, and his breath came out in shallow pants. Unable to resist, he grasped his erection and began pumping to the tempo she set. With each thrust of her hips and shimmy of her ass, he imagined burying himself inside of her. He watched, captivated, as her slender fingers teased the thin elastic of her panties, and he was suddenly assaulted with imaginings of his fingers creeping beneath the fabric.
As the music grew more raunchy, her movements evolved in kind. Her eyes never left him, watching him stroke himself with ever-increasing fervor. She was clearly turned on, and as so, his arousal shot through the fucking roof.
She spun around such that he was granted full view of her waggling ass. Her back arched, and she looked over her shoulder at him, seductively biting her bottom lip.
"Bella," he whined, as his free hand reached out to palm her ass.
His grip on his cock tightened, increasing the friction. But all he could imagine was sinking into her deliciously tight pussy.
"Please," he begged, quickly pushing his lenses up to the bridge of his nose.
Much to his delight, she smiled, backed up, and then, eased herself into his lap, still swinging to the rhythm pouring out of the speakers. Both hands shot up and around her waist to enthusiastically knead and squeeze her breasts, abandoning his self-ministrations.
Her thighs straddled him and she leaned back into his chest. With each thump of the bass, she ground herself against him, swiveling her hips.
"Fuck," he moaned, feeling the heat between her legs.
"Feel good, Dr. Cullen?" she breathed, as she brushed against his erection yet again.
He licked the bare skin of her back as his fingers walked down her flat stomach. Grabbing her left hand, he pulled it down to the junction of her thighs.
"Finger yourself, Dr. Swan," he whispered in her ear. "Please."
"Oh, God..." she moaned, obeying immediately. His hand covered hers. With his dick's ringing approval, he felt her rub her clit over the sheer fabric over her panties.
Once more, she rocked against his erection, and the feel of her hot pussy through the silky fabric was almost unbearable. He sucked in a deep breath, only just containing his own wanton wail.
"More," he ordered.
Complying, she slid their joined hands underneath the elastic and began stroking her already wet folds. He nearly came undone when her forefinger slipped inside and she began fucking herself.
"You are so fucking sexy, Dr. Swan. Do you know how many times I've thought about fucking you since you left?" he groaned, taking her earlobe between his teeth. "And then, you come home like this?"
Briefly, Edward acknowledged that he'd said the word, 'home', without consideration or thinking. It had simply come out naturally, a manifestation of his truest desires. And to his sheer glee, Bella moaned even louder. Whether or not she'd noticed his slip was irrelevant; she didn't chastise him, and if anything, her motions increased in vigor. He was ecstatic.
"Do you want it right now, Dr. Cullen? Do you want to fuck my pussy?" she teased, breathless and wanting.
He wasn't sure which of them got off more on hearing the other speak their naughty desires. Me, definitely me, he acknowledged.
Saying nothing, he grasped the seam of her panties and pulled them to the side. With no further ado, guiding his tip to her entry, he pulled her down forcefully.
"Fuck!" she hissed. "So hard...so good...God...Edward!"
After but a second to pause for acclimation and then another to grin in satisfaction, he began guiding her hips up and down his length.
"Did you miss this, Bella? Did you miss me being inside you?" he grunted, as his hips rose to meet hers.
It was an altogether odd question, but his query was beyond mere sexual provocation. He really wanted to know, because he certainly had missed her. It had been only days, but it had felt like weeks. Or months. Or years. Their time apart was a prime example in the layperson's simplified understanding of the Theory of Relativity.
"Yes, oh... God, yes," she breathed, as her head lolled back.
Brimming with elation, he happily bucked his hips upward as he pulled her down again and again and again. Her nails dug into his forearms, scratching delectably, and every time their lower halves collided, he was rewarded with quite audible grunts and groans.
As they fucked, Edward decided that while their positioning was somewhat awkward as far as speed and force were concerned, it had definite merits. For one, she was on top, which always managed to make her scream and squirm. Secondly, the depth of penetration and angling were sublime. Thirdly, his dick was doubly rewarded by the hug of her ass cheeks with each downstroke. And lastly, since she was facing away, he could watch her ass bob up and down and grope her breasts simultaneously. It was really a win-win as far as Edward was concerned.
With as much care as he could manage while still maintaining rhythm, he gently pried the tassel laden...things - whatever they were called - from her breasts so that he could feel her hardened nipples.
"Oh...oh, God! Fuck!" she cried out as he increased his pace. He rolled her nipples, twisting slightly and pulling on her rings, as he thrust his hips upward.
Since it had been days since he had orgasmed in any way, containing the extent of his pleasure was becoming difficult. With each stroke, his abdomen tightened perceptibly, and his cock thickened. Fortunately, being the compatible pair they were, he noted Bella's pussy was already cinching, and her moans had increased in volume.
"Harder!" she wailed. "God, fuck me... oh...Goddamnit, Edward!"
Eager to please, he yanked her down with as much might as he could muster in their positioning, and he was recompensed by the sensation of sinking as far into her body as it would permit. Like two matching pieces of a puzzle, he acknowledged. Each thrust was echoed by a hard smack of wet skin and was punctuated by their incoherent ramblings.
"So...fucking...good...Fuck...Bella...can't fucking... stand it!" he groaned. "Come, God, please come!"
Within moments, he felt her walls clamp down around his cock. With each push, her body trembled, just on the precipice. He lapped at the salty sheen glazing her back, and he nipped at her pinkened skin, knowing that his mouth and teeth would drive her over the edge.
Gasping for air, she cried out his name over and over, as her muscles fluttered and constricted around him. Content that she was finally sated, he allowed his tension to release in three final, deep thrusts.
Completely exhausted, he fell back against the cushion, thanking the leather for being cool. Loosely, he maintained his hold on her hips, and he gently pulled her back to lean against his chest once more. He decided that his shirt and tie were probably ruined, but that really didn't bother him in the least. He'd sacrifice his entire wardrobe and his soul for another fuck like that.
"Mmm-hmm," she hummed. "Missed you."
"Then don't leave me again," he mumbled into her hair, tightening his arms around her waist.
"Good idea," she sighed, as she reached back to fluff his tangled mop of hair.
His heart swelled in his chest, and he found it suddenly difficult to breathe. Unwilling as yet to show his hand, he feigned nonchalance.
"Well, unless it means I get another strip tease," he countered playfully. "But seriously, you didn't wear that on the fucking plane, did you?"
[6] Really, folks? Okay, fine. Sookie Stackhouse is the primary protagonist in The Southern Vampire Mysteries by Charlaine Harris. The series was first published in 2001. Who names a character 'Sookie' anyway? Gah.